Selfish Motives
by Lake of Rage
Summary: SPOILERS FOR THE ENTIRE PREQUEL TRILOGY, ESPECIALLY AZRAN LEGACY. Oneshot. The three remaining Bronevs reflect on their motives. Two of them are selfish, and the last one believes that he is, too. It must run in the family.


_So, I started doing this daily prompt thing where I write at least 500 words for a prompt every single day. And, this past week, three of those have ended up being Professor Layton related. So I got to Sunday and realized that they were all about the Bronev boys and their motivations and decided to make Sunday's prompt (which was "emotional repression", by the way) be a last piece and post them all as a fanfic._

 _In any case, I don't have much to say about this. I don't own_ Professor Layton, _obviously. I mean, Level-5 is way meaner to its characters than I am. So, with all these formalities and explanations out of the way, let's get our angst on!_

* * *

 **Selfish Motives**

He could play up his intentions as much as he wanted, but, in the end, part of it was just an intense feeling of inferiority that he felt it was his duty to erase.

He had wanted to play God; that was it. True, his sudden fixation on the Azran had at first been rooted in entirely pure motives. The world was declining, and it was his job as a capable archaeologist to try to figure out the secrets of the Azran so that he could make it better. After all, who knew what the ancient civilization could do if their power was harnessed? The thought that such power had obviously still lead to their downfall never even crossed his mind; it just wasn't something he thought about.

In his mind, the Azran were the ultimate beings of power.

In his mind, their legacy would be an ultimate gift to mankind.

Very quickly, he had become corrupt in the hands of Targent. Rachel had left him, as had the boys―not of their own volition, perhaps, but they had left him nonetheless―and he now found himself with nothing to live for. Nothing but the alluring presence of the Azran looming on the horizon, taunting him with dancing fantasies of a better future. But even that had become twisted in his mind. It had turned from a search for that which would benefit mankind to a desperate man's struggle to regain control of his life.

And didn't he deserve a little bit of power? He hadn't done anything wrong―at least, not back then, he hadn't. All he'd done was dare to venture into the realms of archaeology and unearth a few Azran relics. Without a warning, he had been roughly snatched out of his happy life, his children and his freedom cruelly torn from his grasp at the time when he needed them most. He had been forced to watch helplessly as he was separated from his sons. And then he had been forced to watch even more helplessly as Rachel finally succumbed to her illness.

That was around the time that Leon Bronev broke.

In the end, he supposed he had been pathetically easy to break. One simple blow and he shattered almost entirely, all self-restraint fleeing him. From then on, he lived to uncover the Azran legacy, striving towards nothing else in life; putting his own life and the lives of others on the line. Targent's methods, which he had once rightfully viewed as barbaric and extremist, now seemed far more inviting. After all, you can't make an omelet without cracking a few eggs, right?

He had battled with the decision to try coercing Hershel into Targent. He hadn't even known that it was Hershel at first―he seemed to have abandoned both his first and last name long back down the road, and he was now living as Desmond Sycamore with a lovely wife and kids of his own. Pride was the first thing he felt. Much to his horror, the next emotion that bubbled up was jealousy.

Why was it that Desmond got to live a happy, Targent-free life when he had watched everything he cared about be jerked out of his grasp right when he was sure he had a firm grip?

Yet another thought that simply never occurred to him: Desmond had certainly suffered. After all, hadn't he been only a boy when his parents were stolen from him, followed shortly by his little brother and his last chance at a normal, happy life? But that wasn't on Bronev's mind. All Bronev could think about at this point was his own suffering, wallowing internally in his own pity.

So, spurred on by this train of thought (as if his own suffering was an excuse to inflict the same upon his son), he showed Desmond just what it had been like; saw the despair flash across his eldest son's face as he thrashed in the grasp of his father's Targent agents, shouting his wife and child's names as they were dragged away. He'd informed Desmond that he had twenty-four hours to give in and join them before everyone he loved got bullets to the head and made off, leaving the sobbing form of what used to be his cherished child laying dejectedly on the hardwood floor.

And, in the end, it was his lust for power that staved off those initial jolts of guilt and remorse when he inevitably was forced to keep true to his word and ruthlessly execute his granddaughter and daughter-in-law.

Because he was long gone at this point. He was no longer Leon Bronev, cowardly archaeologist and father who would deny group effort in the face of such an imperative project. He was no longer that man who had been dragged kicking and screaming out of his house however-many years ago.

He was Leon Bronev, leader of Targent.

And he was going to solve this puzzle if it cost his sons' lives.

* * *

He wasn't yet a monster, but he was three steps from the edge.

Of course, before that, he had been four steps from the edge, and, before even that, five steps, and so on and so forth. The edge hadn't even been in sight as of four years ago (had it really been only four years?), back when he was content with those he loved and his previous drive for revenge was all but forgotten. He was full of hope then; full of hope and full of life and full of love.

When Targent swooped in once again to steal that away from him, he had started to run. He ran and ran and ran, and, when he finally stopped running and collapsed into sobs, he was ten steps from the edge. In front of him, he could see an unfamiliar costume—a white mask, a black cloak, and a hat. Without even thinking, he dragged himself one step closer to the edge and picked them up.

A year after that initial sprint, he locked two innocent people in a cellar. It took maybe fifty steps to drag them kicking and screaming through the household, but he moved forward only one. Then he lumbered around in his excavation machine, digging up Misthallery—it was astonishing how little ground he covered then, too.

It took a step to push Layton off of the City of Harmony (well, attempt to), then another step to traverse the entirety of Monte d'Or, which brought him down to five. Five measly steps. It was getting closer. A sinister flickering glow shone out from the depths of the pit beyond; vaguely, he wondered how quickly it would burn him up when he finally crossed it.

After that, there was the step of manipulating Layton; travelling all over the world with his little brother in the backseat none the wiser, all for his own petty revenge plot. Now, he could practically smell the fire. Then there was another step; manipulating Aurora. At first, she had been just an accomplice of Layton's like Emmy or Luke, so she hadn't counted as her own separate step. Now, though, he felt as if she would be the one to push him off the edge.

For she was so, so much like his own daughter. Quiet and reserved, but caring and selfless. Innocent and naive, but determined to learn more about the world around her. Protective of her friends and in the constant pursuit of knowledge. Sometimes, lately, as the light from the pit beyond the edge flickered across Aurora's face, he could swear that she was his daughter. Those were the times that he hastily excused himself, attracting Layton's attention with his suspicious behavior but not caring much.

Now was one of those times.

Because Desmond Sycamore was three steps from the edge, and he was teetering like a tricycle with its left wheel removed.

This time, it was worse than usual. Visions of his late daughter and his late wife accosted his mind, tearing it to shreds like little more than tissue paper. Those memories played directly over images of Aurora's face, taunting him; letting him know that he was losing it. Not that he didn't know that already.

He practically collapsed into the chair by his desk, having long since made a tactical retreat to his study. Then he had buried his face in his hands and thought that maybe, just maybe, this didn't have to happen this way. Maybe he didn't have to be Descole. Maybe he could stay Desmond; stay with Hershel and Aurora and Emmy and Luke.

It was a silly dream in the end.

Because they unlocked the key and Aurora tried to kill herself (and, God, he had been just about ready to follow suit if she had actually jumped), saying that they had been misled all this time; that the Azran Legacy wasn't a boon, but instead a great threat to the world. And his heart sunk, because he knew that this was it: time for him to take the key and take his leave.

Perhaps, if she hadn't begun to talk about how awful the legacy was going to be, he might've stayed. But now he knew that he had to hurry: he had to unlock the Azran Legacy before Bronev did to make sure that no one got hurt.

And that was quite a startling revelation to him. Not the fact that he would have to leave them behind and become nothing more than a traitor to them; he had been steeling himself for that ever since he first saw Layton walk into the cave at Froenborg. No, what shocked him were his suddenly changing motives.

Because, he realized with an odd feeling in his chest, he had only ever been doing this for revenge. And, don't get him wrong: he still definitely wished to avenge everything that had been stolen from him. That sweet taste in his mouth at the idea of showing up Targent and destroying the last remnants of the Azran didn't recede in the slightest. But, this time, it wasn't the first thing that popped into his head.

The first thing that popped into his head was that he had to do it to save the lives of those he loved.

Loved. What a word.

He had started this whole charade because he cared nothing for morality or others anymore; although the idea of actually harming his brother had repulsed him at first, his anger after the City of Harmony rose and his steps closer to the edge had erased that fear. But, in the end, he didn't go through with it because he still didn't care about them.

He went through with it because he cared too damn much.

So, taking the key into his hand with a laugh he knew Layton would recognize, Desmond offered his little brother one last sincere smile before taking a running jump off the edge.

And, just as he thought that, wow, the jig was really up this time, Layton reached into the pit and grabbed his hand, pulling him back up onto solid ground.

* * *

Sometimes, he helped people to make the world a better place. Sometimes, he helped people to make their day a little bit brighter. Every once in awhile, he would help people accidentally, without even knowing what impact he was having. He had even helped people whom he didn't think deserved help because he feared the repercussions of not doing so. Yes, usually, Hershel Layton had entirely selfless motives for being so charitable.

Sometimes, he helped people because he was slipping and he needed someone to help him back onto solid ground.

The idea had first struck him after his original great loss. He was speaking of Randall, of course. That day had marked the first time he'd seen his best friend disappear before his very eyes, although certainly not the last. It also marked the first time he helped people for an entirely selfish reason.

On his way back from his brief check-up at the hospital (he was just fine, and he felt awful for that), he passed someone on the streets who had dropped all of their many belongings and were scrambling to pick them up. Distractedly, without even thinking, he helped them gather the scattered things, and they enthusiastically thanked him.

Realizing how good it made him feel—how wanted and loved—he went out of his way to help the next person he saw drop something. The same rush of recognition filled him and, not even noticing—not even realizing that he was being self-absorbed and stupid—he adopted the habit of stopping to help everyone he passed. Not because he wanted to help people. No, not for any of the actual, good reasons one might want to help someone. Just because he was a weak, needy human who couldn't even last a few days without needing someone to say "Thanks" to him.

He had confided in someone, once; he had done it a few times, to be honest. First, there had been his parents. They were the ones who initiated the conversation. Pa had physically pulled him out of his bedroom, where he had been engrossed in his new found obsession over archaeology, and Ma had been waiting anxiously for them in the kitchen. "Hershel," they had said, "you're taking this a lot better than most would—" (he laughed a little internally, then stifled an external sob) "—but we're worried. You would feel better if you talked about it."

So, hesitantly, he took him up on their offer. He told them everything about how he felt. At first, it seemed like it would be just a short sentence or two, but, the more he talked, the more things he thought of to say and the more corresponding words flowed out from his open mouth. Eventually, without even realizing it, he blurted, "And now I'm being selfish." After that, he'd clammed up again, but, with a lot of prodding, Ma managed to drag out of him an explanation.

"I feel so awful about having basically killed Randall—" At this, his mother cried out in protest, but his father placated her quietly and motioned for him to go on. "—I feel so awful, and I start to think about how terrible I am—" A voice crack. How pathetic. "—and then I go and find someone who's having trouble with something and help them just because I want to hear them thank me."

Once it was out in the open, he regretted it. Wincing, he held his breath, waiting for the axe to fall; in his current state of extremely skewed judgement, he assumed that they would be just as disgusted with his behavior as he was. Because he had always seen helping people out of the kindness in his heart as a sacred tradition passed down from his parents. And, in his mind, he was slandering the Layton name by trashing those morals.

Then both parents had hugged him tightly—he could swear that one or both of them was shaking, or maybe that was him, or maybe they were all just shaking like leaves in the autumn wind—and Pa had said, "Son, that's not selfish. That's what you would call human. And if this is your worst reaction to having to watch Randall die, then it just goes to show that you are the least selfish person on this earth.

That hadn't been the last time, either. Later, aboard the airship Bostonius, he and the other Professor had gotten enraptured in a discussion about archaeological dig sites scattered here and there across the globe. Somehow, the topic had drifted back to the tragic weddings they had just witness in Hoogland, which lapsed into a conversation about how they wished Julien and Romilda well, and then…

He hadn't really meant to bring up Sycamore's own marital status. He really hadn't. It had just… come out as he was reminiscing on the two rules of the San Grio Harmony Ring.

He had immediately apologized profusely when this visibly distressed the poor man, but Sycamore had simply insisted it was fine. "I have mostly gotten over her," he lied through his teeth, although he sounded so sincere in the moment.

"I know how hard it is to cope with the loss of someone whom you love so dearly," he offered, which piqued Sycamore's interest. Seeing the other man look up and quirk an eyebrow, Hershel sighed quietly to himself. Without waiting to be asked, he continued, "My fiance, Claire…" A pause. "...Well, would-be fiance. She died the night I was to propose." At this, he caught Sycamore wincing sympathetically out of the corner of his vision, but he didn't allow room for comment. "After her death, I… well, I was in quite a state for a while."

The other Professor had smiled slightly, and—to lighten the mood, he supposed—said, "I can't imagine you being in a state, Professor."

He did not mirror the smile; pretty quickly, Desmond's slipped away. Taking a deep breath, he had admitted ashamedly, hat pulled low over his eyes, "Professor Sycamore, I'm afraid that, when upset, I tend to help people for selfish reasons. Not because I want to help them, but because I need to feel useful. Helping them is merely a happy coincidence. Whenever I lose someone—" Only later did he realize that Sycamore flinched knowingly at the world-weary tone to his voice here. "—I always end up searching for reassurance from the most unlikely of sources." Then, in his own unsuccessful attempt to cheer them both up, he added with a sad smile, "I assure you, it is most ungentlemanly."

Sycamore's breath had hitched noticeably and, for a moment, Layton thought he was repulsed by the idea. Then, voice wavering strangely in a way Layton had never heard his voice manage, Sycamore breathed, "Professor, if that's selfish, then I fear everyone else on this planet is a pure narcissist."

He always humored them when they said things like this. But he knew it was a lie. Thought he knew, at least.

No, Hershel Layton was most definitely _not_ selfish.

He was just too selfless to see it.

* * *

In the end, he supposed, it could all be summed up with one word.

Repression.

Take those stupid emotions that you're feeling and squeeze them down like lemons; wring them out and stuff them away into the darkest crannies of your mind so that you never have to admit they were even there. Grip your transgressions by the nape of the neck and beat them until they're unconscious; or maybe just hug them close to you; so close that their ribs snap and they slowly asphyxiate. One way or another, make sure that nobody, nobody, ever knows of your weakness.

Because he is not weak. People might say something about that; might agree or disagree, depending on who they are and what they think of him. He doesn't care what they think. He is strong. He is stronger than anyone else, and he will make it through this. Maybe not everyone else will, but he will make it. No matter what he has to do to get there.

It doesn't really work.

Sometimes, it helps out fine. When it comes to little things, those everyday failures that everyone must encounter at some point, it definitely works to just suppress and repress until you can't feel anything anymore; squelch your grief in its tracks as effortlessly as crushing a bug under the heel of your shoe.

But no true hardship could be overcome so easily. Trying to get over something as monumental as a death by just bottling your emotions up and letting them age like fine wine was a catastrophe waiting to happen. Because, eventually, the cork will burst off with a disastrous pop and all of those feelings, everything you attempted to get away from, will all come rushing back with all the force of a hurricane, battering against your mental fortifications until they break down.

You should just trust him on this. He knows.

Because he has tried; oh, how often has he tried to just throw all of these feelings away; cover them up with something less embarrassing and less humiliating and less gut-wrenchingly distraught. It just doesn't work. You can't sweep that kind of thing under the rug. It will end up destroying you in the end, no matter how tall you build your emotional walls. In fact, that will make its siege of your mind all the easier, because you'll be too isolated to call for help when you need it.

And isn't it just delightfully ironic that he was struggling to win so hard, abandoning so much in his effort to come out on top, that his efforts led to his downfall? Just like it did for his father—his son—his brother. One by one, the Bronev family is crushed under the beast of their own device—or, more accurately, it crushes them from the inside out, starting with their heart, then their soul, then their dreams, and, finally, their empty shell of a body.

But miracles do happen.

And miracles always seem to seek the Bronev boys out.

As he sits in his dingy cell, face in his hands, another inmate—his cellmate, in fact, he realizes belatedly—walks up to him almost nervously. At first, he tenses, body stiffening as he anticipates a shiv in the back. Then, he glances up and relaxes only slightly—it's one of his previous underlings, although he doesn't remember many of them going to prison along with him. He's shocked when the man asks him quietly if he'll help out with a new program starting in a few weeks. A program to help inmates who are truly sorry for their crimes and ready them for their eventual releases by offering them college level classes. One of the classes is to be on archaeology.

He accepts without hesitation.

He is standing up on the Bostonius's plush carpet as she weaves her way through the clouds. Around him, the sky is painted a beautiful shade of scarlet, but he isn't watching nature's majesty. His eyes are fixed ahead, concentrating on nothing at all. Raymond is silent by his side, obviously sensing that he needs a moment of silence. Finally, he speaks; asks what he is to do now. It's a legitimate question, and he doesn't really expect Raymond to have the answer, but, as usual, his butler surprises him. In that moment, realization strikes. Targent didn't take away everything that was important to him. They never got to Raymond, did they?

He agrees without hesitation.

He is standing at the window, sorrowfully looking out into the garden below. Luke finishes watering the flowers, looking rather downcast, as Emmy's yellow scooter and its yellow-clad passenger blur into the distance before disappearing over the horizon. With a quiet sigh that he won't admit shakes on its way out, he turns and plods back over to his chair, dropping himself into it heavily, and places his palm across his face. It's a motion he hasn't made in years—not since Claire gave him his beloved top hat and he took to covering his eyes with that instead. But before he has a chance to mull over how he's alone (again), Luke bursts into the room, sobbing and crying, and throws himself into his mentor's arms.

He returns the embrace without hesitation.

He never has any hesitation nowadays.

Why would he?

* * *

 _I am so, so sorry._

 _Hey, but at least there's a happy ending, right? ...right?_

 _...oh, come on. That totally counts as a happy ending. What do you want from me?_


End file.
